What Lurks in Her Eyes

Chapter Two: Frozen Tears in Russia

Song: Glass Heart by Sam Tinnesz produced by Tommee Profitt

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The soul screams as I tear his soul from his body. His echoes of pain burns my sensitive ears and my spirit feels weak as I use my dark energy to rip him from his body.

While some souls are peaceful about their passing, others are difficult and refuse to except the inevitable.

The older Russian man, who was stabbed to death while walking home from work one night, is refusing to leave his life behind. His body lies on the cold, damp sidewalk of the rundown part of town. And when he refused to come willingly, I am left with no choice but to use force.

My spirit wrestles with his soul in the shadows as we battle together. He screams some obscenities at me in Russian. No need to be rude I'm just doing my job.

When my spirit finally wins him over, I bring him to his knees with just a simple flick of my wrist. Black mist swarms his body in an instant, pinning him to the ground and sucking his soul away into the underworld.

He screams his last before his soul dissipates into thin air along with the black mist. Sighing, I throw my hood off of my head and slide down the cracked concrete wall and rest my elbows on my knees.

My energy needs a bit of time to refill. Forcing a soul like that requires a lot of energy I need to function properly. I observe the surroundings. Everything is grey and clouds gather in the sky. It's especially frigid in this Russian town, temperatures have dipped down to negative three degrees Fahrenheit.

Hardly any inhabitants wander the cold streets, and the few that do are bundled tightly in thick, warm clothes. Since I'm in my spirit form, I'm not subject to the weather like mortals are.

Life is scattered about here and there. The homeless warm themselves by makeshift fires they create on the roadsides. Deep wrinkles carve the features of the homeless and their graying hair sprawls out of their furry hats. They look miserable and their eyes hold the pain of the constant struggle they have faced throughout life.

The people that are not homeless, however, huddle in little shacks. Wood burning stoves produce the smoke that billows out of the chimney in thick, dark smoke. Their homes are made of wood that looks as if it will collapse at any minute.

Each one of their ragged breaths produce whisky fog that escapes though their nose and mouth and they shiver in the cold.

It is miserable here.

I check my list, and getting up from the cold ground, I make my way towards a market. Raw meat and goats and turkeys with slit throats hang from hooks. Dried blood sticks to their fur and feathers. Their sellers stand behind the counter, yelling prices at passing customers.

Assortments of mushy fruit are piled in wooden baskets and an older woman sits behind the counter, begging people to buy the products her farm produced.

I notice that the people behind the counter are dressed in rags, symbolizing just how poor this particular city is. The ground is muddy and icy beneath my feet. Several people fall in the roads and break bones.

But then I know why I'm here.

In the distance, I watch as an elderly woman wobbles unsteadily against her thin wooden cane. Her grey hair is tied in a bun and her eyes sag with wrinkles. Her cane falters, and she crashes to the ground.

Mud splatters around her, spraying in the air and on bystander's feet.

And nobody goes to help her up.